


Apollonian and Dionysian

by friendsofthemusain24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: E as reimagined Princess of Thrake, E is a Prince and he despises it, Greek Mythology AU, Love At First Fight, M/M, R is Dionysus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:58:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19367038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendsofthemusain24601/pseuds/friendsofthemusain24601
Summary: Enjolras, prince of Thrake, refuses to take a suitor. Only if one beats him in battle may they ask for the chance to win his hand, and the prince will not so easily hand over his freedom. Unfortunately for him the God Grantaire has other plans... he just doesn't know it yet.





	1. The Beginning. (R)

After a few millennia, the whole “life” thing really grew old. It’s amazing what time can wither away, corrupting even the most tender hearted individuals. Not that Grantaire was ever one for altruism. He figured that he had an excuse for his messed up personality, considering he had one hell of a beginning. That’s the thing about immortality; the end was unlikely to come, and the middle becomes a blur as day fades into day, but the beginning of your life…. Well you could scarcely forget about it. 

Grantaire had certainly not forgotten about his own birth, although he supposed the memories were not truly his, merely recollections and things he pieced together through stories. His mother, the beautiful and regal Etienne had been courted behind Hera’s back. She was not pleased, to say the least. Her resulting loathing for Grantaire could whip up oceans and destroy entire civilizations. She hoped, upon learning that Etienne was ill, that her bastard child would die with her. What she was not planning on, was for her husband to slice into his own leg and carry the infant into term. Grantaire, had quite literally sprung from his father’s thigh. If that’s not maddening, he didn’t know what was. Time could wither away much, and Grantaire was no exception. He considered himself to be a kind man if not uninspiring, and generations of being alive had definitely taken their toll. Not that it all was bad, life among his brothers and sisters was fine. But just that. Fine. 

Grantaire couldn’t find it in him to complain though, it didn’t feel right. The thing was, he wasn’t an unhappy person. He wasn’t a particularly happy person, but it didn’t feel right to pretend to be sad. Because that’s what it was, of course, pretending. How could he be sad when he regularly had fun with his siblings, regularly appreciated the way the sun rose over glorious mountain peaks. Even if he felt a pit the size of the Tyrrhenian sea growing in his stomach each morning he woke up to find the empty mattress cold beneath his fingertips. He ignored the tears prickling at his eyes, and pressed his chapped lips together. 

“Well,” he mused, picking up a half empty bottle off the floor and taking a satisfying swig “what were you expecting?” It wasn’t as if he usual romps in the hay stuck around. He supposes never having an actual relationship is his cross to bear in life. It’s not so bad as crosses go, he doesn’t spend many nights by himself. But still, he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t woken up alone. He shakes his head,“This is ridiculous. You are over one thousand years old. If you can’t get a date, love is dead”. Realizing the slip of his tongue, he muttered a quick curse, apologizing to Aphrodite and praying that she doesn’t strike him down, or take away the minimal pleasantries she allows him. A flash of color strikes into the corner of his eye, “Speaking of one of my pleasantries….” he trailed off. 

Picking up the soft beryl fabric of the handkerchief he sighed. There was always next millennium. 

“Okay R, you’ve got to stop this.” Eponine assaulted him with a swat, “Go down to Earth or something and quit bothering me, you’re bumming me out with your sad shit.”

“Gee thanks for pointing that out to me Ep. It is abundantly clear to me that I am bothering you”.

She just sighs,“You know that’s not what I mean R. Come on, it’ll be good for you.” Instead of responding to this he asked, “Come with me?” but she was already shaking her head. 

“I can’t, I would but I can’t. Zeus is sending me on some bullshit mission to protect one of his romantic liaisons from Hera’s wrath.”

“A lost cause” he adds helpfully. 

“I know, I know” she says flatly, “anyway, I still think you should do something other than sit around drinking tequila and reading sad poetry.”

“Oh ho ho,” he cried, “my poison of choice is red wine, not tequila.”

Eponine snorts, “My mistake dude. Where are you planning on going on your escapade?” 

“I didn’t say I would go. What is even the point?”

“It’s better than you sitting around here moping.”

“I don’t mope” muttered Grantaire, but he could see her point really. “Fine dude, I’ll go, spy on some gladiators or something.”

Eponine waved her hand lazily in a languid goodbye, “Have fun with that you dolt. Meanwhile I get to defend harried women from a frenzied goddess.” 

“Enjoy that.”  


 

Earth is something special. The gods and goddesses all seem to agree on this, although some spend more time down on the face of the planet than others. Grantaire couldn’t get enough of it. If he was being honest, he relished how the crisp air felt sliding down his lungs. The cool earth beneath his feet, and the leaves crunched in a way that’s much more satisfying than on Mount Olympus. He doesn’t know why he loves it so much, presumably a combination of escaping his stagnant surroundings, and chatting with new people. But if he’s being honest, there’s a buzzing in the air that he hasn’t felt for years back home.

“Dammit, Eponine was right” he hummed to himself as the energy of earth propelled him forward into the nearby kingdom of Thrake. An array of spices assaulted his nostrils as fragrant baked goods permeated the air. Grantaire knew it was stupid, but his brain was starting to recover from whatever issue had been going on, and he felt a little better. Not feeling like garbage certainly put him in a better mood, and with his newfound not-entirely-distaste he approached the dilapidated castle barriers. 

The old stone had weathered with age and disuse thanks to the lengthy peace that the king of Thrake had established. Thus the gates to the castle rarely had to be closed or maintained. Heel to toe he crunched his way through vibrant orange and yellow leaves, determined to follow the cacophony of sound he heard around the side of the castle. Walking along the beaten path Grantaire became more and more intrigued, the noise kept growing. It peaked and crescendoed with undying fervor, and he absolutely had to know what all the fuss was about. 

He would know soon enough. The minute he turned the corner away from the dying stone he was greeted by the unmistakable stench of sweat and blood. 

“Lovely,” thought Grantaire, “what have I stumbled upon?” He approached the crowd bodly, what was he supposed to fear, he’s a god! But before doing so, quickly transformed into a form where his deity-likeness could not be noticed. In the appearance of a simple peasant, Grantaire approached the clamorous crowd with dark brows raised to his forehead. The sight he walked in on was surprising to say the least. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he certainly was not anticipating to see the prettiest boy he had ever seen standing in a field of blood. Grantaire had never been so confused, and yet on an animalistic level, oddly intrigued. The boy with striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes was staring him down. Eye to eye, he raised his chin in defiance. 

“Do you challenge me also?” and oh GODS that voice, tinny, much higher than he was expecting, and so so pleasant to hear. ‘Breathe Grantaire, gods, get it together, you are a literal deity for the love of all that is good and decent in this stupid world, why are you freaking out?’

Instead, out loud he inquired, “Challenge?”

The blonde let out a rich laugh and pushed a loose curl behind his ear. “If you wish to court me, you have to win my hand in combat.” He raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow on his pale, and unfairly beautiful face. Grantaire was so, so gone.

Breathily he replied, “Yes, I am one of your suitors.”

“Very well”, he smiled, “Let’s commence our fight.”


	2. The Fight. (R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight commences.

Orange light streaked across the misty mid-morning glow, dew on the grass crunching happily with every movement. A small boy of around three or four years on the front lines of the scene, screaming with glee at the surrounding carnage. If he was being honest, Grantaire was appalled that someone could let their child anywhere near this grisly scene. At first glance, it was apparent that there were at least twenty corpses of previous suitors laying on the field, but upon looking closer it was a much, much greater number. Their bodies mangled beyond repair, and Grantaire absolutely refused to acknowledge that the smiling boy taunting him could be the same person who slaughtered that many people. Although, he supposed, as a god he should know better than anyone the shortcomings of mankind. Fuck knows Grantaire has his own fair share of flaws. Actually, that’s an understatement, Grantaire is made up entirely of flaws; his literal identity as a god is that of the god of alcohol. He was DESTINED to make poor decisions. His father assured that from every terrible thing he’d ever done. 

‘Ah, good old dad.’ Grantaire thought with a sigh, it really REALLY wasn’t his fault that he was scum. 

Despite all of this going on in his head, Grantaire knew on some level that he needed to snap out of his reverie or else he was not going to win this fight. Logically, he knew as a god it would be difficult for him to be injured by this prince, even despite his obvious battle skills. Still, he didn’t see the need to put himself through physical pain, along with the emotional pain that his lovely brain constantly supplied him with. Enjolras met his eye with a dark glance, and he must have defied all science, because he definitely felt his pupils dilate thanks to the irrevocably handsome prince. He was drawn to him on a spiritual level, heart beating wildly in his chest as Enjolras beckoned him forward, then it began.

 

Fighting with Enjolras was an out of body experience. It wasn’t just that he was implausibly handsome, and as they wrestled their bodies were flushed together in moist, sweaty fervor. Grantaire really did not need to swell on the feeling of his skin slick against his, or the abrupt noises from deep within Enjolras’ throat when fists made impact. Yeah, he was definitely going to be reimagining those noises later, in a completely different context. He didn’t feel great about it, but honestly it was the prince’s fault for groaning so when he was already unfairly attractive. He really, really couldn’t comprehend how even the cut above his right eyebrow made Enjolras somehow hotter yet. 

“SHIT!” he shouted while narrowly missing a porcelain right hook. ‘How can such pretty hands cause so much damage?” he wondered to himself, before vollying his own kick back. 

The taunting retort was immediate“Kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

“You know,” he ducked below flying arms, “I don’t typically embrace the woman who wished me dead.” Enjolras froze, allowing Grantaire ample time to catch him off guard and knock him down.

 

“What? OOF” he let out a rush of air as he fell, but not before latching onto R’s shirt and yanking him down too. Thankfully, Grantaire managed to hold himself an inch above Enjolras’ trembling body, arms pressed into wet ground. 

“I win.” he declared victoriously. 

Enjolras’ eyes widened. “Shit.”


	3. Enjolras' Dilemma. (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How was he supposed to navigate a sham marriage with a husband he didn't want? Enjolras is at his wits end.

Staring in the bronze mirror Enjolras was disgusted with himself. His perfectly tailored suit clung to his wiry frame with ease, creating an illusion of poise, when in reality, he wanted more than anything to disappear. How could a man such as he, who craves pure democracy have the ill-fortune to be born as the son of a king? Okay, logically, he knows this is a shitty thing to complain about. He knows this, he really does. But he can’t quite meet his own eyes in the mirror knowing his illusion of freedom was just stolen. 

His father cleared his throat. “You will make a dashing husband.” 

“I don’t really have a choice in the matter. Do I?” he asked pointedly. 

The king’s gaze darkened and his grip tightened forcefully on his son’s shoulder. “You should count yourself lucky, there are other ways to marry off children. Be lucky I allowed you a husband, and did not marry you off to a princess of some foreign land. I did not have to indulge my queer son’s fantasies about romance.” At “queer” Enjolras winced, but didn’t back down from the challenge. 

“I should count myself lucky that you resigned me to a life with a complete stranger!? And I would hardly consider hoping for an actual marriage, and not just- a business transaction unreasonable.” 

“You wouldn’t have had to wed the stranger, if you didn’t lose the fight. Whose fault is that?” 

“YOURS!” He could not contain the heartache, and hurt behind his words, as the crushing revelation that his freedom was gone consumed him. “I should never have been required to fight for my own fucking freedom. Do you know how sick and twisted that is? I am nothing more to you than a pawn. Look- I will play your game. I’m fully aware that in order to receive my inheritance I need a husband.” His father raised his eyebrow, but Enj cut him off, continuing his lecture. “God- obviously I don’t want your filthy money for myself. I would be happy without a cent to my name, but if I want to accomplish my societal goals, realistically I need funding. We’re done here.” with that, he dismissed his shocked father. 

Immediately Enjolras sank to the ground, emotionally spent. With tears pricking at his eyes, he allowed himself a brief moment of respite before deciding there was no use in wasting a perfectly good afternoon’s worth of work, simply because of his own petty drama. Taking two deep breaths, he slid a shaking hand over his face, tugged at his stupid sleeves on his tunic which cost enough to feed a small family, and hated himself more than he ever did before. 

“Time to get to work.” he muttered with a shuddering breath. Enjolras pulled out his correspondences and began to writing to his allies across the nation, trying to rally those in favor of his idea to recirculate wealth to the homeless population in Thrake. God but, his quill started to shake on the paper, and he couldn’t stop shaking and if he could just slow his breathing he could get these letters done, then move onto the next task which will definitely not be focusing on the fact that his life is over and he will spend the rest of his life in a loveless marriage because he is being forced into- god! His chest heaved uncontrollably, and he could feel the beginnings of a panic attack creeping up into his throat. He really, really needs to buckle down, and keep busy, because if he doesn’t he’s going to go fucking crazy. 

Enjolras pressed his hands to his eyes choking back a sob. His freedom was taken from him, and even for being the son of a prince, he didn’t have that much freedom to begin with. The thought of being shut up in some random man’s house, after being shut in his father’s house for so many years was unbearable. What was he supposed to do? His father could have him killed with ease, all he would have to do would be to expose his secret. Homosexuality wasn’t exactly favorable in Thrake; it wasn’t as if he was in Greece. Although- he supposed, with his new husband, that might not be a bad idea. God, this would be so much easier if he could stop picturing those stunning hazel eyes knocking him to the ground, and the feeling of their bodies pressed together, all warm. And a whiff of something that was sweet, and distinctly male, when his nose accidentally brushed brown curls.   
He is so gone. 

 

A solid twenty minutes later when he was all cried out and thoroughly annoyed by his own weakness, Enjolras stood up, deciding the best course of action would be to take his letters out to one of the servants, and to go on a walk while he was at it to clear his head. Enjolras walked to the gates, and immediately wished he hadn’t, because who did he see but the very man who was his intended. 

“Ah. My husband.” he called, with stone in his voice, and absolutely nothing in his tone to suggest an invitation. The brunette, however, merely smiled and hopped on over. 

“If it isn’t my Prince Charming,” he drawled with mirth stretching evidently across his features. 

“Look,” Enjolras scowled, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I would really rather not talk to you right now. Let’s just see each other at the wedding, and that’ll be that.” The mirth lessened, but nothing in Grantaire’s tone would suggest anything was remiss. 

“Umm, no? That’s a terrible plan.” Manic disbelief drove Enjolras’ eyebrows ten thousand feet into the sky.   
“Well what do you suggest, I don’t know you, nor do I care to, and seeing as you’re marrying me against my will, I figured the LEAST you could do would be to do me the decency of at least pretending like I have any freedom in this wretched relationship, and respecting my decision and to leave. Me. the. Fuck. Alone.” Grantaire’s ease fell away and without thinking he stepped close, beginning to lay a concerned hand companionably on Enjolras’ shoulder, faltering for only a second before deciding to push through. 

“I expect nothing from you,” he quietly started with astounding sincerity in his voice, “if you truly do not wish this I will retract my victory. I was not aware that you did not choose this-” Enjolras scoffed, cutting him off. 

“Who in their right mind would marry a total stranger?”

“Millions of girls-”

“That’s different, they don’t have a choice!”

“Neither do you.” Grantaire whispered. “I’m truly sorry, I didn’t intend on competing, I’m new here, and well…” he blushed. “I thought you were good looking. But Enjolras,” he desperately pled, “I never, NEVER would steal someone’s freedom from them. Please believe me, I still would want you to be a free man…..What do you want to do about this situation?” Enjolras’ brain was going a mile a minute trying to process all of this. 

“Well…..” he started, “Given that you thought I signed up for this, I suppose I shouldn’t be disgusted with you.” At the word, “disgust” Grantaire noticeably flinched, much to Enjolras’ confusion. He continued, “I have to know though, what exactly are your intentions?”

With solemn eyes Grantaire lifted his gaze against his nature to look directly as the prince. “To be married to you. If you’ll have me.” Enjolras paused, considering, before a small grin flitted out. 

“We definitely need to discuss the specifics of this arrangement…”

“How proper!” Grantaire interjected, before meekly shutting up.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Let’s get married.” 

“How romantic!” He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading as wide open as his future had just become. 

In the blink of an eye, everything had changed. He went from loathing his upcoming wedding entirely, to counting down the seconds until at long last he would escape the hell of his father’s house, and move on to wherever it was his husband lived. Grantaire, he learned, was an artist, and according to himself, not a very good one, but the prince had a sneaking suspicion that his intended was more talented than he was letting on.


End file.
